your mouth, contagious memory of sweetness on the tongue
whispering voices through our sacred ears during the night
meadow of sunflowers, I want to lie in quietly
holding wrist against a wet rag heaving apology
forty-seven, return of sickness for the second time
photograph evidence and words but mostly in flashbacks
summer heat pressed against glass or a phone or a parked car
ants crawling their hungry way through holy skin, decaying
cracked open window for breathing without suffocation
claw your path through blue veins on pale skin and I will watch the
parade of history unwanted as it leaves the throat.
Muscle I thought I had, now softly disintegrating
14 syllables each line, word pool